


Sam I Am

by Amberdreams, quickreaver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hallucifer, Homelessness, M/M, Mental Instability, Temporary Amnesia, the kindness of strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:58:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams/pseuds/Amberdreams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/pseuds/quickreaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternative to the Born Again Identity. Here Castiel doesn’t immediately think of the idea of transferring Sam’s madness onto himself. As a result, Sam's brain is still fried. He escapes from the Westville asylum wing by himself, steals a car and drives until he runs out of road in Idaho. In the parking lot of a motel in a small town, Sam finds a kind of peace for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam I Am

**Title** : Sam I Am  
**Author** : amberdreams  
**Artist** : [](http://quickreaver.livejournal.com/profile)quickreaver  
**Words** : ~12k  
**Rating** : NC17  
**Warnings** : mental illness, hallucinations, a dash of incest, angst  
  


**Acknowledgements** : All the thanks and love to my betas, [](http://ameliacareful.livejournal.com/profile)[ameliacareful](http://ameliacareful.livejournal.com/) and [](http://firesign10.livejournal.com/profile)[firesign10](http://firesign10.livejournal.com/), they made this fic so much better! Many thanks also to the [](http://sammybigbang.livejournal.com/profile)[sammybigbang](http://sammybigbang.livejournal.com/) mods for creating and wrangling this challenge. You are awesome, chaps!  
The art is by [](http://quickreaver.livejournal.com/profile)[quickreaver](http://quickreaver.livejournal.com/) so you know it's going to rock, right? Well, what are you waiting for - go and check out the ART MASTERPOST **[HERE](http://quickreaver.livejournal.com/130640.html)**.

 

 

 

_here is the deepest secret nobody knows_  
_(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud_  
_and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows_  
_higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)_  
_and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart_

_i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)_

**_i carry your heart with me by E.E Cummings_ **

 

**_Westville, North Indiana._ **

Sam’s face was too gaunt; cheekbones sharp enough to cut Dean’s finger if he dared to touch them (and he really wanted to, just to reassure himself Sam was still there, physically at least). Dean didn’t move away from the wall, though, just carried on leaning against it, all casual-like, pretending it wasn’t the only thing keeping him on his feet. He watched Castiel move around Sam’s bed, hoping that the confidence that was back in the angel’s stride would be backed up by results.

Because if Castiel couldn’t restore his little brother’s sanity, Dean didn’t know what he was going to do. Being helpless wasn’t new to Dean but it was something he was heart-sick of dealing with.

Castiel’s expression was serene as he placed two fingers on Sam’s knitted brow. Sam flinched away, muttering, but Cas persisted, talking quietly to Sam as if he was soothing a skittish horse. Dean’s breath shuddered out as if he’d been punched in the stomach when Cas’ face gradually crumpled into a pained frown. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding it until that moment.

“Oh Sam, I’m so sorry,” the angel said. Castiel's shoulders slumped, as if the bloodied coat Dean had recently restored to him had turned from cloth into lead. Dean asked the question, though he already knew what the answer would be.

“What happened? Why didn’t it work?”

“I cannot rebuild Sam’s wall, Dean. I can’t even attempt repairs. There is nothing left of it but dust. I’m…”

Dean interrupted, couldn’t help himself. “Don’t say you’re sorry, Cas. Just don’t.” He was at Sam’s bedside now, though he didn’t remember moving. Sam’s eyes flickered, his unseeing gaze flitting from point to point. Dean could guess what Sam was seeing and hearing – Lucifer. It was always Lucifer. Dean reached out, took Sam’s hand, his own calloused fingers rubbing over the thick scar tissue in his brother’s palm. Sam’s wandering gaze landed on Dean and for a brief second, Dean’s treacherous heart leapt in hope.

“You’re not real, not real…” Sam whispered, pulling his hand out of Dean’s loose grasp and his head fell back on the pillow. Dean’s fragile hopes turned to ash in his mouth. He almost didn’t hear Castiel talking over the roaring of his despair.

“There is one thing I believe I can do. I think I can give Sam some rest, though I have no control over his dreams.”

Cas leaned forward and pressed the same two fingers to Sam’s forehead. Sam’s eyelids fell shut with such finality Dean almost expected an audible clunk. Dean watched as Sam’s breathing evened out. Hesitantly, he placed his palm on Sam’s broad chest. The heartbeat slowed down a little, even though Sam’s eyes still moved rapidly under his bruised lids.

“How long…?” Dean didn’t take his eyes off Sam’s face, as if looking away could wake him. Sam needed sleep more than anything after so long without any rest and Dean didn’t want to jeopardise this rare gift. Even if part of him raged silently that Cas couldn’t repair the damage he’d caused.

“Hard to say,” Cas frowned, looking up from Sam to Dean. “Usually this would knock a human out for days, but Sam isn’t …” Cas paused, clearly trying to find the words of one syllable Dean would understand; fucking angels. “…wired normally right now. For now while he sleeps some healing will take place – he needs the rest even more now, after that demon’s electric shock treatment.”

Dean was grateful Cas had arrived in time to pull Sam out of that amped-up frying pan, but it was hard to forgive the angel for having landed them in this mess in the first place. It didn’t seem right. It had been far too easy for Cas to destroy Sam’s wall and tumble his brother’s mind into who knew what kind of turmoil, yet the angel had nothing to offer by way of healing. Dean sighed heavily. It wasn’t like any of them was blameless these days. They were lurching from one catastrophe to another and he just wanted it to be over.

At least Sam looked peaceful for the first time in ages, even if lying on his back like this he reminded Dean of a stiff laid out for relatives to view. Bone weary and dispirited, Dean didn’t protest when Cas and Meg suggested they return to the motel for the night.

 

+-+-+-+

It was dark outside the barred window when Sam woke in a strange bed in a strange room. The walls were shabby without even a hint of chic and there was a sickly yellow light shining in the corridor outside the wide-open door of his room. He thought he’d been dreaming; something to do with fire. The scent of ash lingered in the air, together with confused images of two different blonde women burning. The horror thankfully didn’t linger, sight and smell both immediately banished from his head, chased out by a familiar voice singing.

_Fucking Oklahoma. Dean would… Dean?_ The name slipped out of Sam’s head. It floated down the same river as his dream, as clear and colourless as the water it mingled with and was lost.

“ _Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day, I’ve got a wonderful feeling, everything’s going my way_ …”

Sam thought it was strange that Lucifer should have such a good singing voice, but then didn’t they say the Devil had all the best tunes?

He sat up, taking stock. He felt…surprisingly good. He was dressed in white hospital scrubs, though this room didn’t look much like the image that came to mind when he thought of a hospital. It smelled different, too. Less like antiseptic and more like dust and decay, now that the dream-scent of burning had dissipated. Had he been ill? He didn’t remember.

Lucifer stopped singing and perched on the edge of the bed. He smiled, shuffled up to nudge Sam’s shoulder and Sam couldn’t help shivering. He seemed to remember Lucifer telling him Hell was all about ice instead of fire and certainly cold was emanating off the Devil in waves.

“So, Sammy, what’s the plan?”

“It’s Sam,” was his automatic yet distracted response. Because Lucifer was right, he should have a plan, shouldn’t he?

Whatever he was going to do, there was nothing here to help him decide. Apart from the bed and a small rickety-looking table by the door, the room was empty. Even the strip-light fitting on the ceiling was empty, the room being lit from the corridor and when Sam blinked he had a flashback image of the fluorescent bulb exploding and a frightened girl’s face.

Marin. The girl’s name was Marin. Her brother had been a ghost and between them they’d put him to rest. So why was he still here? The job was done, so he should be moving on, finding the next monster to kill.

“Attaboy, Sammy,” Lucifer crowed with delight. “Let’s blow this popsicle joint!”

Sam didn’t bother correcting Lucifer about his name this time. He was too preoccupied with fighting off the dizziness that swept over him after he stood up. It was possible he wasn’t as well as he’d thought. But the feeling passed quickly and he wasn’t going to let a momentary weakness hold him back. Whatever this place was, Sam knew he didn’t want to be here a minute longer. The sense of urgency that gripped him was as inexplicable as his failure to remember anything about himself apart from his first name and his hunting occupation, so Sam didn’t waste any more time in wondering. It couldn’t be that crucial and besides, he had other concerns right now. He made his way into the corridors outside in search of his clothing and most importantly, footwear. No self-respecting hunter should be without a pair of sturdy boots.

The building had that dead of night hush and Sam was grateful that for once Lucifer was matching the quiet whisper of Sam’s bare feet on the surprisingly shiny-clean floors. After the derelict state of his room, Sam had expected the whole place to be similarly run-down, but it became lighter and more standardly clinical as he moved farther away from the corridor where he’d awoken. He found a locker room full of wooden cupboards that looked promising, and sure enough, after he’d made short work of their flimsy locks, he found bags full of personal belongings, presumably belonging to patients. The first two held nothing of use, but in the third cupboard he struck lucky. He pulled out a canvas duffel which looked familiar and held clothing that fit him. He dressed quickly, then shouldered the bag.  He’d check the rest of its contents for clues about himself later.

Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

+-+-+-+

Castiel shifted uncomfortably, not knowing what to say. Dean didn’t suffer from the same problem finding the words to express his ire and worry. Dean shouted and waved his arms at the discomfited bald doctor, who had just delivered the news that Sam had disappeared sometime during the night.

“What do you mean, he’s gone? What happened to your security? He’s fucking _sick_ – you were supposed to be taking care of him. What kind of hospital just lets its patients wander out into the night, alone and unprotected? There are de-- dangers out there for someone in Sam’s state of mind!”

Castiel winced over Dean’s stutter and recovery, because he knew Dean had been about to yell about demons, which was likely to get him onto the doctor’s inmate list in Sam’s place. Castiel watched Dean’s face redden to a dangerous shade of puce. He wondered whether he ought to step in and put Dean to sleep like he had Sam, to prevent Dean expiring from apoplexy. There was a touch of self-interest in that thought, as he feared it was unlikely Dean had forgotten that he’d only left Sam unattended because he’d thought Sam was safely asleep, touched by an angel. Touched by Castiel. It was only a short step for Dean to move from blaming the hapless doctor to his default position of blaming himself, and by extension, Castiel.

He sighed. Atonement was difficult. Winchesters were difficult.

“He’s _your_ pet human, Clarence,” came a nasal voice at his shoulder, laced with dark amusement. “Haven’t you got a leash for him?”

Castiel closed his eyes. Demons were also _very_ difficult, especially this one. Castiel missed the days when smiting demons was not a matter for consideration, one just did it. An unequivocal right action. In fact Castiel missed righteousness in all its glorious certainty.

“You are thinking very loudly,” Meg said. “I can hear the guilt and regret, even over our Deano’s little tantrum.”

Dean gave both Castiel and Meg a scowl that only served to increase Castiel’s guilt and Meg’s amusement.

The atmosphere was somewhat tense when the unlikely trio eventually set out in their latest stolen car to find Sam. Castiel had learned that silence was the best policy, after receiving a death glare from Dean for asking how he knew which direction to head, when they didn’t know where Sam had gone. Castiel missed the Impala, not least because when driving her Dean found a measure of peace. He hated the Leviathans that little bit more, on his own and Dean’s behalf.

Castiel stared out of the dusty window and hoped that Sam had not gone far. It was a hope that was to be dashed.

 

+-+-+-+

This car was wrong. It bothered Sam that it only had two doors and the dull beige of the paintwork was somehow more offensive to Sam’s eye than the rust patches round the base panels. The sound of the engine was too shrill; the stained coverings of the bench seat made a rough rasping sound as he slid in; the steering wheel was plastic-smooth under his grip. He didn’t know why all these minor details about an old rust-bucket he’d stolen from the hospital parking lot made him so uncomfortable. He didn’t even like cars. He didn’t think so anyhow.

And it was hard to think. When Sam tried to remember whatever it was he’d forgotten, his head started to ache something fierce, so he stopped trying and concentrated on driving. Lucifer lounged in the shotgun seat, resting his dirty sneakers on the dash and randomly stopping the radio tuner on songs he liked so he could bellow out the choruses. For once Sam welcomed the irritation. It helped him stay awake long enough to put many miles between him and the Northern Indiana State Hospital. He had no idea where he was headed – just away from Westville was enough, so he set his back to the rising sun and drove.

He stopped for gas a couple of times; once in Iowa and once in Wyoming. This old Buick he’d jacked was a real gas-guzzler and for some reason he liked that, even though it was illogical and was bad for the environment. He used cash Lucifer found stuffed in the glove box, crumpled bills mixed in with handfuls of receipts, greasy food wrappers, and a packet of gummi bears so ancient they were a single, sticky congealed mass. Didn’t stop Sam eating them though, and the sugar rush was a heady thing. Dawn lit the sky at his back and he drove until the sun lowered ahead of him in a glorious bank of purple clouds, the sky painted red and gold. He drove through the gathering darkness and beyond, and probably would have kept going until the nose of the Buick touched the Pacific Ocean, except for two things. First, he’d somehow turned north in the night, as if he had some unconscious aversion to crossing the Idaho border into Oregon. And second, the big old Buick went and died on him in the middle of Cambridge, Idaho.

“Come on, Sam,” urged Lucifer, his expression petulant in the pink and blue light from the sign for Dusty’s Diner and Motel. “Can’t you fix it? I bet your brother could’ve fixed it.”

Sam stopped pushing the heavy chunk of steel that used to be a car off the highway towards the Diner parking lot and glared at Lucifer. Sweat dripped down his forehead and splashed, unnoticed, onto the dusty paintwork.

“A, fuck off, no I can’t fix it,” he said, shrugging to shift the kinks in his shoulders. “ And B, I don’t have a brother. You’re the one with brothers, remember? Michael, Gabriel, Raphael.”

Lucifer cocked his head on one side in a gesture that almost reminded Sam of someone else.

“Hold up there, padre…so you know about my family, yet you can’t remember your own? Fascinating.”

Sam frowned. He didn’t have a family. He couldn’t have; there’s no way he’d have forgotten something as important as that, surely? The night breeze from the mountains to the east lifted his hair and let it drop again, bringing with it the scent of pine and a hint of distant snow. Sam relaxed, allowing the thought float away on the wind. He flexed his arms and pressed one hand against the cool metal of the Buick’s roof, before placing it back onto the steering wheel. He braced his other hand on the open door, ready to resume pushing.

“Why don’t you make yourself useful instead of yammering,” he suggested to Lucifer, as he tensed and strained. His muscles engaged and the heavy car rolled forwards.

Lucifer ignored him, of course, keeping up an unhelpful commentary instead of pitching in with some muscle power. Typical. Sam steered the Buick into the motel parking lot, then aimed her towards the far end where the lights from the motel windows didn’t reach, under some trees and near what looked like an abandoned woodshed. Sweat was running down his back and face by the time she rolled to a halt, cooling him too rapidly in the fresh air off the mountains. He shivered and looked longingly towards the warm yellow glow that promised hot showers, clean sheets and cable TV.

“Not enough money for a room, Sam? Ain’t that a shame,” Lucifer said, creasing his face into his best impression of sympathy. Sam wasn’t fooled, but the Devil was right, their meagre stash of cash was too depleted to stretch to a night indoors, and though he’d found two different credit cards with the bundle of fake IDs in his duffel, Sam was strangely reluctant to use them. The same wariness had caused him to toss his cell phone only a couple of miles outside of Westville. Too easily tracked, and besides, what did he need a phone for? He had nobody to call. Now Lucifer’s throwaway comment about family had Sam wishing he’d thought to check through his contacts before ditching the phone. Too late now.

He considered his options for resting up, and the car seemed to be it. Luckily there wasn’t much of this night left to worry about. Already to the east the jagged silhouette of Snowbank Mountain was starting to emerge against the lightening sky.

Sam shivered. This was a good time to dig round in his bag for some extra layers before climbing into the back seat. Bundled up in as much clothing as he could manage, Sam hunkered down. Neither the cold, nor the nasty plastic smell of the vinyl seats that should have been leather, nor Lucifer’s deliberately out-of-tune singing could keep him awake, and he was out within seconds of putting his head down on his makeshift duffel-pillow.

In his dreams, he was safe and warm, cocooned inside a purring black monster, on the road to nowhere in particular with his non-existent brother by his side, one arm draped over the back of a leather-covered car seat.

 

+-+-+-+

 

Stella Miller worked long hours, and damn hard too, so it wasn’t until she was coming out of Room 28, right down the far end of the block, that she noticed the ugly lump of scrap metal lurking under the trees out back. Oh great. Dusty was going to flip if he had to fork out for a tow again. Fucking kids and their junkers. She knew Cambridge wasn’t chock full of entertainment for teens, but even when she’d been one herself she’d never seen the attraction of racing old wrecks down the highway. She shrugged. It was an eternal boy thing, she supposed.

She waited until she’d finished off the rooms and put all the cleaning stuff away before walking out back to check over the new, unwelcome rust heap. She didn’t know much about cars, didn’t care much either, but she noted that this one was big as well as ugly, the paintwork only a shade away from yellow dog shit and all spotted with rust, while the tires looked nearly bald. The windows were filthy with dust on the outside, and further obscured by a thick layer of condensation on the inside.

“What a heap of crap,” she muttered, and gave the nearside tire a kick. The last thing she expected was for the rear door to spring open and a huge shaggy-haired guy to tumble out. He stumbled and almost ended up on his hands and knees. He looked weak and disorientated as a new-born puppy; there was nothing threatening about him apart from his size when he eventually unfolded, but Stella couldn’t help emitting a little shriek of surprise all the same.

The guy – a stranger, not one of the local good-for-nothing kids – held out a large placating hand, the other pressed to his head like he was trying to stop his brains leaking out of his ear. Stella recognised that gesture. Hung-over, she reckoned. Though he didn’t smell as drunk as the unsteadiness of those long legs might indicate.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, smiling and ducking his head in a self-depreciating way.  His voice was a surprisingly pleasant tenor where she’d been prepared for whiskey-rough. The first of many assumptions, she supposed. That’s what you get when you sleep in cars when there’s a perfectly decent motel next door. She stood up straighter, to compensate for the stranger’s stoop, and instead of apologising for kicking his car and apparently waking him from a drunken slumber, she launched straight into what Dusty called her attack-mode.

“We’ve got a 24/7 reception desk, you know. You could’ve checked in last night, whatever time you arrived.”

The stranger looked even more sheepish at that, brushing the too-long hair out of his eyes in a nervous gesture. The sun was out of the shadow of the mountains and struck his face, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones, the unshaven jaw and bruised shadows under his eyes. Aw fuck. He had no money, clearly. He was younger than she’d first thought, and was a few meals short of the good looks and well-muscled body a bone structure like that deserved.  He opened his mouth, no doubt to spin a few lies, but Stella silenced him with an impatient gesture.

Dusty was going to freak but…

“Follow me, boy,” Stella commanded, and strode over to the diner, not bothering to look over her shoulder to see if the kid was following.

Half an hour later, Stella felt satisfied. She had put some colour in those pale cheeks and hot food in his belly, and she had gotten a name – Sam. She hadn’t managed to glean much else from him, though. He was charming enough, but she thought evasion might be his super-power, he was so good at it. She didn’t sit with him. Of course not, too busy for that. She just ordered the food on his behalf, and made sure Sweet Sal served it up without bugging the stranger with his usual chatter. The diner was busy, which meant Dusty stayed in the kitchen, which in turn saved Stella from having to explain why she was giving free food to some young man who had no legitimate reason to be there.

It wasn’t until she brought Sam a coffee after Sweet Sal had cleared away his dirty plates that things changed. Sam looked up at her, all wide-eyed startled like a deer that’d just caught sight of the hunter’s rifle. She went to set the mug down cautiously, then realised Sam wasn’t actually looking at her at all; rather his frightened gaze was fixed somewhere over her shoulder, eyes tracking, frantic-like. She spared a glance in that direction, but couldn’t see anyone close enough to be bothering him like this. In fact, the lunch-time rush had died down, and Stella didn’t think the sight of Old Marge nursing her mug of sweet tea, or Henry Adams and his gang of high school kids messing with the antiquated jukebox in the corner, were the stuff of nightmares. Though perhaps the latters’ teachers at school might say different, if asked.

“Sam?” she tried, but the boy didn’t seem to hear her. Then to her horror, his face crumpled, and those eyes she still hadn’t fixed the colour of filled with sudden tears.

“Jess,” he said, his voice full of such heartbreak she felt her own heart lurch in sympathy. Then with more resolve, a touch of steel even, “You’re not real.”

Before Stella could react, Sam was sliding out of the booth and striding out of the door, leaving her with one hand still clutching the handle of his untouched coffee, protecting it from spillage because that was the only thing she could do.

+-+-+-+

Being reminded of Jess like that unsettled Sam, sent his thoughts rattling round his head like pinballs, bouncing off the things he knew and the things he didn’t: Jessica had been his girlfriend but she was dead; he’d loved her; something to do with fire, and malevolent eyes that glowed yellower than a lion’s and were ten times more dangerous. He knew he was pining for more than Jess, but there were so many pieces missing from his jigsaw mind, there weren’t enough there to even make a start. He couldn’t make the picture whole because he didn’t know what he was looking for – there were no straight edges or even a corner piece.

He crawled back into the car that now smelled of himself more than anything else, but it wasn’t right, nothing was right, so he curled up as snug as he could round the emptiness inside. He pulled his thin coat tighter still and rocked to and fro while Lucifer sang lullabies.

_Lullaby and goodnight, thy mother's death-light_  
Dark angels beside my Sammy abide  
They will guard thee at rest, thou shalt wake on my breast…

Sam didn’t find it comforting; the lyrics were perverse, naturally, since they were sung by the Devil. Yet somehow he fell asleep to the crooning, in spite of Lucifer’s best efforts. He got the feeling the Devil was put out by his ability to doze off anywhere, anytime, and he wondered whether it was sleep deprivation on top of grieving that had landed him in the psychiatric ward in Westville.

Whatever, it didn’t matter now.

He wasn’t surprised when his dreams were full of death and fire and indefinable longing.

+-+-+-+

Dusty didn’t have Sam’s car towed (apparently it was a ’71 Buick Electra, like that mattered), even though he blustered about and threatened it a couple of times in the next couple of weeks. Dusty got extra vocal after that couple of weekend hikers from New York complained about the crazy homeless giant having an argument with himself outside their room one rainy evening. Stella found it hard to take her husband’s threats seriously though, not after it was Dusty who had gently steered Sam away from the out-of-towners and seen him safely back to the big old Buick, and when she’d caught him an hour later taking the boy some leftover pie.

When Sam was having a good day, she’d find him doing odd jobs round town. He was competent with those large hands of his, seemed to be able to put them to good use on all sorts of tasks ranging from tinkering with her broken garbage disposal unit to carpentry. Sam fixed Old Marge’s wonky shutters, getting her house ready for winter, then dug over Mrs Zimmers’ vegetable plot and built a wooden cage for her compost heap. When he’d finished with the two town matriarchs, Stella found Sam some more repair jobs round the motel and diner that Dusty was always saying he was too busy to get round to. Somehow, three weeks went by, and it looked like Sam was becoming accepted as a resident of Cambridge.

He flat out refused to move out of the car, though.

Stella tried. She offered him use of the rear room with the small window that guests complained about, and even Dusty backed her offer up. Eddie Pincher told her he’d offered Sam his dead son’s empty apartment over his Guns & Tackle store, after he and Sam had spent a couple of hours arguing over the merits of various hunting paraphernalia. Eddie wanted to tell her all the details but Stella had no interest in killing things. Hell, she wouldn’t even let Dusty bring his old handgun into their living quarters, and he was ex-military, so unlikely to do anything stupid with it. Dusty often asked her if she was a Canadian in disguise, risking the whack around the back of the head that was her customary response.

Eventually the Millers compromised with Sam, persuading him to accept the key to the outside washroom, unused since the diner renovation three years ago, when they’d had a shiny new facility installed inside for customers. Sam’s acceptance of the key at least meant he didn’t smell too bad when he ventured into the diner, though he routinely scared out-of-towners with his random talking to the air.

It was strange how quickly the locals had taken him into their midst, as if this quiet young man with his strange ways had always been there. As if Cambridge, Idaho was his home.

 

+-+-+-+

If Stella had told Sam her thoughts, he’d have laughed. He knew better than to call any place home.

The cold emptiness never left him. It was a persistent absence lodged inside Sam’s core, in the same way that Lucifer was a persistent unpleasant presence by his side. It didn’t matter. He was too weary to care.

He slept a lot. He had the feeling that much sleeping was unusual, and certainly Lucifer didn’t like it, was always trying stupid stuff to keep Sam awake. Tried but didn’t succeed, not with the chattering, or the loud singing, or the random banging on hard surfaces. Sam was just too tired all the time for any of that to work.

He didn’t want to waste his life asleep though, however weird his existence was, so he tried to keep busy. People here were being kind to him and he wanted to repay that as best he could.

“They think you’re crazy,” Lucifer said; smiling, always fucking smiling. “You’ll never be one of them, no matter how many sinks you unblock, or air con units you repair.”

“Shut up,” Sam said, refusing to be deflected. He tightened a screw and tugged at the wiring to make sure nothing was loose before replacing the back onto the air conditioning unit he was fixing for old Mrs Zimmers. He put his screwdriver back into the tool bag Eddie Pincher had given him. Everything in its place, nice and tidy.

“What was that, dear?” came a voice from the kitchen.

“Nothing, Mrs Zimmers, nothing at all.” He stood and placed the unit back onto its shelf and flipped the switch. It sprang to life with a low hum, and Sam nodded, satisfied. He followed the alluring smell of baking into the kitchen, and discovered that while he’d been deep in the innards of the broken air conditioner, the irascible widow had been busy making pie.

“Sit down, boy. You’re giving me neck ache.” She gestured and Sam, obedient, sat at the table and ate two huge slices of cherry pie. It was delicious, so why did each juicy mouthful taste like homesickness and loss?

“Do you really not remember anything about your life before you ended up in Cambridge, Sam?”

Sam blinked, dragged back from his reverie by the question.

“Not much, no, ma’am.”

“Aren’t you curious? There might be someone who misses you, some family who are looking for you.”

Sam shook his head. He was sure. Ninety nine per cent sure.

“I had a girlfriend, Jessica. She…” _flames_ , _blood_ , _a flash of yellow_ – his breath shuddered to a stop for a second, restarted. “She died. I don’t think… I don’t have anyone else.”

Mrs Zimmers’ tiny gnarled hand covered his fingers, her pale blue eyes brimming with aggressive sympathy. Sam didn’t know what to do with it, or with the uncomfortable feeling that he was missing something, something vital.

What if he was wrong about being alone?

+-+-+-+

Sam walked down to the Weiser River after he left Mrs Zimmers’ place, his belly full of strong coffee and cherry pie. He was jittery, restless; too much caffeine and sugar. Maybe watching the smooth flow of the brown waters might calm him.

Lucifer had other ideas.

“You threw away your cell phone when you ran away from that North Indiana hospital – that was foolish, Sam. You should have known better,” Lucifer danced away as Sam whirled round, his fists clenched. “Threw away your medication, too. Didn’t you consider that it might have stopped you hallucinating? Might have helped you remember everything you’ve forgotten?”

“What, are you telling me you aren’t real then?” Sam glared at Lucifer, wishing just once he could wipe that smug sneer off his face. Lucifer put a hand over his heart and staggered as if he’d been shot. Fucking drama queen.

“Oh, Samuel, you wound me. I’m as real as that family of yours that you can’t remember.”

“What do you know about them? Tell me!”

Sam lurched forwards, reaching out, but Lucifer sidestepped, nimble as a mountain goat. Briefly, Sam thought he saw cloven hooves where feet should be, and horns peeking out of that blond spiked hair, then his vision cleared and Lucifer was back in his normal jeans and boots. If there could be anything _normal_ about a hallucination of the Devil, that is.

A twig snapped behind him, and someone snickered. Sam spun round faster than the owner of the laugh expected, and snagged a collar. He dragged the spy out from behind some bushes. It was just a kid, maybe fifteen, snub-nosed and tow-haired, a round face full of freckles and meanness. Sam remembered him from the diner – Darren or Darryl or some such name. Always hanging around with those other, older kids who thought they were tough. Even as the thought formed, pain blossomed in his ribs from a blow with something hard – a piece of timber, maybe. Darren (or Darryl) took the opportunity to kick Sam’s shins and break free of his grip.

_Slow, Sam, you’ve gotten slow_ …

“Yeah, come on you fucking spaz, who’re you talking to anyway? Fucking psycho.”

Sam turned slowly to face his attackers. As he’d suspected, it was the three others, the older kids in the little gang. They were all high school dropouts led by Henry Adams, with the younger kid tagging along, who was dangerous because he was so eager to prove he was worthy. It was Adams who had hit Sam, evidenced by the fact the boy was wielding a baseball bat and an evil grin. Great. The little fuckers had obviously followed him, planning this. Sam’s eyes flickered, quickly assessing his situation. One weapon – the bat – between them; three boys who were almost men, and the kid. The desperate, stupid kid.

None of them were trained fighters by any stretch of the imagination – though that wouldn’t stop them from turning into killers, because petty meanness can do that to people, Sam had seen it happen.  It wasn’t right that Sam could remember that, yet not remember his own surname, or the people he loved. Sam drew himself up to his full height for the first time in a very long time, and flexed his shoulders.

“You don’t want to do this,” he said to the boys, keeping his tone even and reasonable. Lucifer danced in the background, waving his arms like he was conducting an orchestra, and laughed and laughed and laughed.

“So not fucking helpful, Lucifer,” Sam said, as the stupid kids came at him, the tall one swinging the baseball bat menacingly.

+-+-+-+

 

Dean was relentless.

He called Kevin two or three times a day, always pushing for information the kid didn’t have. Meg vetoed his proposal to summon Crowley, promised that the King of Hell wouldn’t have any more idea where Sam was than she did. It was obvious Dean didn’t believe her, but to Castiel’s relief, he didn’t insist. Possibly because he didn’t want to be beholden to the King of the Crossroads, Dean didn’t say. They’d driven hundreds of miles in every direction without finding any sign that Sam had also passed that way. They were currently in Nevada, coming up as empty as the desert lands. The easy charm Dean had been able to wield like a weapon had eroded away, leaving the bare bones of his desperation raw and exposed to the world. It made dealing with people – difficult.

Castiel had witnessed Dean’s single-minded obsessiveness before, but never quite like this. The trouble was their unlikely alliance of angel, demon and hunter had nothing to go on, and nowhere to go, with the net result being that Dean’s energy had no outlet. Thanks to the Leviathans he didn’t even have the Impala to tinker with to take his mind off the gaping hole in his life where Sam should be.

“Can you not find your pet hunter a case or two, Clarence?” Meg stormed into the motel room that, much to everyone’s discomfort, the unlikely threesome were sharing. She came to a standstill in front of Castiel, elbows jutting out in an impressive double teapot. Her posture was angry, but her voice was plaintive, on the edge of begging, and Castiel knew what that meant. Sure enough, Dean wasn’t far behind the demon, sending the door crashing back into the wall, making Cas wince. The last motel had thrown them out after Dean had trashed a television by throwing a lamp at Meg, who used her demon powers to deflect it. Castiel barely restrained a long-suffering sigh.

“I don’t need a case, I need to find my brother,” Dean yelled. Meg opened her mouth to reply, no doubt with some sarcastic remark that would merely inflame the situation, so Cas pre-empted her with a swift (and he hoped, subtle) kick to the ankle. The pain elicited a yelp and a sharp look, but thankfully Meg took the hint and said nothing. Deprived of a reaction, Dean rapidly deflated. He sat down heavily on the bed nearest the door, his back bowed and empty hands hanging between his splayed legs. Cas winced again, for a different reason this time. It was hard to be with Dean when he was full of rage, but it was harder when that rage ebbed away, stripping his friend down until he teetered on the edge of despair. Cas understood that the fact that Dean no longer tried to maintain his bravado in front of the demon he hated was a measure of exactly how low Dean felt. It was futile, because Dean always refused, but Cas was stepping forward with his hand raised to offer sleep when Dean’s cell phone rang. He answered promptly, frowning, and Castiel stopped in his tracks.

“Whoa, hang on Kevin, I’ll put you on speaker.”

The prophet’s voice sounded tinny and small even at full volume, but the content of his message was loud and clear. “I think I’ve found something. It may be Sam, I dunno. It’s just a few lines in the Cambridge Gazette from five days ago. Before you say anything about me finding it sooner, it’s a small town and they’re slow putting stuff online. Listen.” Kevin started reading.

**_Wild Man Attacks Local Youth_** _. Recently arrived in Cambridge, the vagrant known only as Sam went berserk yesterday down on the Weiser River Trail. Henry Adams 18, resident of 279 North Superior Street, reported that the vagrant behaved like a crazy man, saying the Devil was making him do things, before attacking Adams and his three friends – Darryl Hett 14, Eddie Lake 18, and Jordan Gross 19 – totally without provocation. The vagrant is being treated locally for injuries sustained in the altercation. It is expected that the Sheriff’s office in Cascade will come over to detain him within the next few days. None of the four Cambridge boys were hurt in the exchange apart from Adams, who has a black eye and broken wrist_.

Kevin’s voice trailed off when Dean interrupted, already putting his jacket on and packing his meagre possessions into his duffel.

“Which Cambridge?” Dean demanded.

“Idaho, on US95,” Kevin replied, “Do you think it’s…?”

But Dean had cut him off, shoving his cell into his pocket, and was halfway out of the door before Castiel thought to react. Hurrying after Dean, Cas almost had to run to catch up, Meg hot on his heels. He jumped into the shotgun seat of their latest (inferior) vehicle, while Meg dove in the back. They’d barely gotten the doors closed before Dean gunned the engine and headed out of the parking lot, tires squealing in protest.

Castiel didn’t bother asking if Dean knew where he was going. He’d learned early on in their acquaintance that Dean’s knowledge of the Middle America road map was second to none. Neither did he ask Dean to take a break during the long, tense drive that followed. He knew it would be a waste of breath.  From Tonopah, Nevada, to Cambridge, Idaho, was nearly six hundred miles and they made the trip in just under nine hours of virtual silence.

It was just after dawn when they arrived, and Dean broke his silence with an exclamation of disbelief as they passed the town sign. _Welcome to Cambridge, Gateway to Hell’s Canyon_.

“Fuck, Sammy. Were you trying to get a gold star for irony stopping here?”

Meg chuckled. Castiel didn’t understand what was so funny.

+-+-+-+

Dean’s heart wouldn’t stop its clamouring. His blood was rushing noisy as Niagara inside his skull, he was so afraid of what he’d find. _Sam’s hurt, Sam’s alone, Sam’s crazy,_ while over and around and under everything wound the other thread of _it’s my fault, it’s all my fault_. The thoughts bounced round and round until he felt breathless and dizzy. It had been seven days since the report of the incident – anything could have happened to Sam since then. Even though Dean knew they had an angel in their corner, and that Cas was fully powered up, he wasn’t looking forward to busting Sam out of custody if that was what it took. If that was all it took – because they’d said those kids, those fucking, ignorant, hick-trash kids had _hurt_ Sam.

Driving through the one-horse town that was Cambridge (population 328, second largest town in Washington County, Ida-fucking-ho), Dean’s hands were trembling so hard he had to hold onto the plastic steering wheel of the shit-heap car just to stop himself shaking into pieces. The main drag had a small museum (closed) and a few shops (also closed) and then, on the crossroads of US95 and the state road, Dean spotted a motel with a diner attached, open for breakfasts. Maybe he could get some answers in there.

He swung the car into a space and parked up. Meg heaved a pointed sigh and Cas tentatively said “Dean?” but Dean ignored them both. He got out of the car and tried to find some sort of composure before stepping inside the diner. He took a couple of deep breaths then spun around at the creak of the car’s doors opening.

“She stays in the car,” he said, pointing at Meg, who already had one booted foot firmly on the asphalt. She flung him a dirty look but swung her leg back inside the car, slamming the door with emphasis. Dean couldn’t give a flying fuck for a demon's hurt feelings. He didn’t offer any invitations but Castiel joined him anyhow, and they entered the muggy warmth of Dusty’s Diner together. He’d never admit it, but having that trench-coated shoulder next to his was comforting.

Dean slid into the nearest available booth, which happened to be in the window overlooking the motel’s parking lot. Meg glared at them through the doubled up panes of glass. At the back of the diner, one of the servers was having a quiet but spirited disagreement with a guy dressed like a chef. Dean looked over the menu without enthusiasm, even though his stomach was letting him know he hadn’t eaten for more than twelve hours. On any other occasion the list in front of him would have had his eyes lighting up with delight, especially combined with the awesome smells wafting over from the busy kitchens. Now, his hunger was overwhelmed by worry.

“So, what can I get you boys?” The server who’d been arguing with the cook was smiling down at him, and she’d snuck up on him without him even noticing. Fuck, if she’d been one of Crowley’s demons he’d be dead by now. _Stupid, Winchester, pay attention_.  

He turned his best aw-shucks smile on the server (her badge said her name was Stella). She looked wise enough to recognise it as bullshit, but was hopefully woman enough to appreciate it anyway.

“Actually, Stella, we’re looking for some information, about a guy. He was in the news a few days ago…”

Stella’s expression hardened and she held up a hand to cut Dean off.

“Are you _press_?” she asked. Hostility was in every line of her, even her frilly apron was bristling with it, and the contempt she imbued in the noun was daunting. Dean quickly revised his cover story, decided he’d risk honesty for a change. Something about Stella’s defensive stance spoke to Dean of caring, which was unexpected, given that the story they’d read had Sam coloured as the villain of the piece.

“God, no, nothing like that. The guy in the article, the supposed vagrant? I think he might be my brother.” Dean didn’t mean to, but his voice broke a little on the word, and he saw how Stella softened at the hint of vulnerability. He pressed his advantage. “Can you help us?”

Stella still looked wary, pointed at Castiel. “So who’s this then? Your tax accountant?” Dean couldn’t help it. He grinned while Castiel frowned and started to put her right. Dean got in first, before Cas said something about being an angel of the Lord and got them thrown out.

“Cas? Nope, he’s just a friend with no dress sense. I’m Dean, by the way.” Dean fumbled with his wallet. “I’ve got a picture of my Sam here, is this your guy?”

Stella fished reading glasses out of a pocket under her apron and peered at Dean’s photo. She nodded.

“Yeah, I reckon so. He’s got a lot more facial hair and he’s a lot skinnier, but that’s our boy.”

“Please, where is he? The news report said he’d been hurt.”

“Yeah, unfortunately they got that part right, nothing much else,” Stella paused, looking round as the diner door swung open and a young guy swaggered in. She stiffened. “Excuse me one sec.” The boy, who looked to be late teens, had the remains of a colourful black eye, and sure enough, when Dean checked, his right wrist was bandaged. It had to be the kid from the report, the ringleader, Henry Adams. It was Dean’s turn to tense up, hackles raised in attack dog style, but he needn’t have bothered.

“Henry Aloysius Adams,” Stella didn’t shout, but her voice carried across the busy diner and Dean saw the boy wince. He couldn’t help a quick glance at Cas to mouth _Aloysius_? Was that even a real name? His attention quickly returned to the scene before him, because this Stella was fucking awesome.

“Have you made your statement to the county sheriff yet? Because until this whole mess of lies is cleared up once and for all, you’re not welcome here, boy.” Adams flushed a deep red, and started making some sort of spluttering protest, but before he’d managed a couple of words, Stella had the boy turned around and was ushering him out of the door. As the door was swinging shut behind him, Stella delivered her parting shot.

“Dusty’s Diner ain’t no place for liars, bullies and hoodlums. You remember that, son. And don’t let the door smack your ass on the way out.”

As she walked back to Dean’s table, the customers of the diner broke into a spontaneous round of applause. By the time she reached Dean, her angular cheeks were flushed but she was smiling, and looked ten years younger.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Dean said, “but that report said Sam had beaten up those kids. How come nobody here seems to believe that? I know my brother wouldn’t harm a couple of teens like that, but I’d have thought you guys would believe your own over some stranger.”

The smile vanished from her face like someone had wiped it off with a cleaning cloth, and she wiped her hands on her apron in a gesture that spoke of worry.

“Come with me, Dean, Cas. I’d best take you to Sam and I’ll explain on the way.”

She took off her apron and quickly told the other girl serving where she was going, before leading Dean and Castiel outside. As they walked round the diner past the long row of motel rooms out the back, Stella told them what had really happened.

It seemed that although the four boys were all consistent in their story at first, one of the kids, the youngest one called Darryl, had eventually broken down and confessed that they’d been the ones who’d attacked Sam. The only damage Sam had done was while he was wrestling with Henry Adams for possession of the baseball bat, which had hit the older boy in the eye, and ended up with Sam twisting the bat out of his hand, causing the sprained wrist. Sam on the other hand was in much worse shape, Adams having got in a few good hits with the bat while the other two older kids had held onto Sam’s arms, before Sam had been able to get free and close Adams down.

Dean gritted his teeth and wished he’d followed his instincts. He should have laid into Adams when he’d first realised who the little fucker was back in the diner. Castiel’s hand on his arm calmed him a little, enough to wonder where Stella was leading them as they rounded the end of the block and approached the edge of the parking lot. It appeared to be deserted, apart from an outhouse so ramshackle he could see right through it, and an old rust bucket of a Buick Electra. Stella stopped and faced them, the concerned expression back in full force.

“I don’t know what happened to Sam before he arrived in Cambridge, he hasn’t been able to talk about it to anyone here, but you should be aware, he doesn’t remember much of anything. And he was like that before that stupid bully Adams cracked his head and ribs with that baseball bat. But since then, after our sheriff released him, I haven’t been able to get him to come out.”

Dean looked around. “Come out of where?”

Stella pointed to the wrecked car and Dean rubbed a hand over his face as realisation sunk in. It was no Impala, but the 1971 Electra was maybe as close as Sam could get. _Aw hell, Sammy_.

“We’ve been bringing him food, since he won’t come to the diner any more, but I don’t think he’s washed in a week, and he wouldn’t let me or anyone tend to his injuries after the nurse at the clinic dressed them. I’m so worried about him, so if you can help, brother or not, well, that would be awesome.”

“He is indeed Sam’s brother, ma’am,” Cas spoke up for the first time since they’d arrived, and somehow imbued his words with all his angelic authority. Dean wished he knew how that trick worked as it would come in real useful sometimes.

“His name is Dean Winchester, and I am Castiel. Perhaps Sam has mentioned us?”

Stella shook her head. “Like I said, he can’t remember anything. Oh except he sometimes sees his dead girlfriend, Jessica. And he argues with the Devil a lot.” She shrugged as if such conversations were commonplace in Cambridge, Idaho, and who was Dean to say they weren’t? He kind of wanted to hug her for her utterly pragmatic kindness.

First things first, though. He had an injured, delusional brother to save. He couldn’t think further ahead than that.

+-+-+-+

It was cold enough that Sam’s breath was visible in puffs of white mist every time he breathed. He found it soothing, evidence he was still alive, even though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been warm. His head ached constantly, a throbbing in the background like an engine running, a low persistent vibration that made his teeth feel loose.

“You stink,” Lucifer observed, flicking peanuts at Sam’s head. They bounced off to ping softly against the glass of the car windows, plink, plink, plink. Stink, stink, stink. Sam giggled softly. He ran a hand through his hair but his fingers got tangled up and he struggled to drag them free. Maybe Lucifer was right, maybe Sam should use Stella’s washroom key, but that would mean going outside, and Sam didn’t like it outside. He didn’t even go out there to the toilet now, just opened the car door and aimed as best he could. It was insanitary and disgusting, but he didn’t care any more.

He settled back into the sleeping bag Eddie had given him, and listened to the peanuts hitting the glass. He didn’t even wonder where Lucifer got the nuts from. He was content, almost happy, until the hypnotic pinging sound ramped up the volume a few notches, before morphing into a loud rapping from _Outside_. Sam curled up, hugging his knees and started rocking gently, back and forth.

Someone was Out There. A man’s voice swore (probably stood in something unspeakable) then called Sam’s name. Sam moaned and covered his ears. Then someone was opening the car door, and trying to come Inside and that was not right, not right, this was his space and nobody was allowed Inside except Lucifer and that was only because Sam didn’t have a choice. Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight and kicked out.

“Ow, fuck, Sammy!”

Lucifer was yelling, trying to drown Sam in noise, but for the first time in a long time, Sam was able to block the Devil out.

“Sam?”

He knew that voice. It was…it was…

“Sammy, it’s me. Dean.”

Dean. Something exploded in Sam’s brain and he breathed in and forgot to breathe out.

+-+-+-+

“Sam! Sammy, come on, it’s okay, just breathe,” said that rough voice he knew, and there was a calloused hand patting his bearded cheek, a strong arm round his shoulders, bringing Sam upright and not flinching from the bad smells. This could only be one person, the one person Sam should never have forgotten. Sitting up sent pain stabbing through his injured ribs, which at least had the advantage of bringing Sam back to full wakefulness. He hissed involuntarily.

“Easy there, Sammy, let’s get you out of this heap of junk and have a look at the damage, hey?” Dean’s face was almost too close to focus on, but even over his own none too fragrant aroma, Sam could smell the layered peppermint and whiskey on his brother’s breath, and see the poorly veiled anxiety in Dean’s eyes. A fresh wave of guilt washed over him. Dean’s hands came up to cup either side of Sam’s face, palms warm against the chill in Sam’s bones.

“I can see you thinking, dude. None of that now, come on. This isn’t your fault.”

“This is so touching,” Lucifer cooed, “I do love a good reunion scene.”

Sam flinched and jerked away from the simpering Devil. “Shut up shut up shut up,” he muttered, and Dean’s hands dropped. Sam grabbed them, held on. “Not you, Dean, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Dean’s eyes were wide and wary, but he nodded.

“Yeah, okay.”

Then Sam was out of the car and standing, even if he was swaying a little. Dean didn’t let go again, had slid in beside him as a buffer between Sam and the Outside. Sam was grateful for the support, in every sense. Especially when he saw Castiel. He stiffened and leaned heavier against Dean, who was the only thing that felt solid, real and trustworthy right now.

“Stella, sweetheart, is there somewhere I can take Sam to get cleaned up?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll give you the key to Room 33. It’s a family room, two queens plus pull out beds, so all three of you should be okay. Take as long as you need.”

“Stella, you fit your name perfectly, you _are_ a star.” Dean said with a grin, and Sam smiled his thanks too, as Dean steered him along.

“Come on, sasquatch, let’s get you into the shower before you suffocate us all. Man, you really reek.”

Sam turned his head and saw that Castiel was following, his expression pensive. Sam thought about protesting, but it was taking half his concentration to put one foot in front of the other, while the other half was occupied ignoring Lucifer, who was dancing along beside them. Dean’s grip tightened as if he could sense Sam’s distress.

“What is it?” Dean asked, keeping his voice soft so only Sam could hear. “Is it _him_?” Sam was both grateful and frustrated that Dean wouldn’t say Lucifer’s name, though he understood why. He nodded, then wished he hadn’t, as the movement made him woozy. Lucifer cackled and capered like some sort of manic jester, and Sam gritted his teeth, clinging onto Dean as tightly as he could. Everything hurt, but feeling Dean pressed warm and solid against his side was keeping Sam anchored when he was so afraid he’d float away.

+-+-+-+

A strange calm descended over Dean the moment Sam leaned into his shoulder when Dean extricated him from the car. All Dean’s uncertainty was replaced with the knowledge that this was where he was supposed to be, _this_ was what he was supposed to be doing. Looking after Sam.

Fuck douche-Dick Roman and his Leviathans, fuck saving the world. He just wanted his brother back.

Sam’s muttering was almost constant, he didn’t seem aware he was doing it. Dean’s heart was being squeezed in his chest every time he noted how frantically Sam’s changeable eyes flitted around, and he wondered what Sam was seeing. Was Sam being haunted by more than Lucifer? Dean wondered whether he was maybe seeing Jessica, or Dad, or Bobby. He tightened his grip, hating the way Sam’s limbs were trembling, as if Dean’s hands were the only thing stopping him shaking apart.

Dean grimaced ruefully. It seemed Sam had settled right back under Dean’s skin, an ache that couldn’t (shouldn’t) be shifted.

Stella unlocked the room and handed Cas the key, as Dean was unwilling to take his hands off Sam for even one second. He’d lost Sam too many times before, he wasn’t going to let go again.

“There’s plenty of hot water, and fresh towels on the bed. Come on over to the diner when you’re ready, any time. Sam’s not been eating right since those boys attacked him, and my Dusty makes the best burgers in the whole of Idaho. Oh, and I bake a mean cherry pie, ask Sam.”

Stella was gone before Dean could thank her properly – not that it mattered, even the allure of cherry pie was forgotten in the time it took for Cas to close the door and Dean to manoeuvre Sam into the surprisingly spacious bathroom. Sam allowed himself to be manhandled, obedient and pliant as a child – not that he’d ever been that kind of kid. No, Sam had always questioned everything, argued and pushed back, always demanding answers, looking for reasons why he should do as he was told. Now he sat placidly when Dean sat him down on the toilet, didn’t move while Dean went back into the bedroom to pick up the towels from the bed.

Castiel was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “I should fetch Meg from the car,” Cas said, frowning as he stared at Sam through the open bathroom door.

“Sure, whatever,” Dean replied, already turning away. Sam needed him.

Sam’s darting gaze finally stopped when it landed on Dean’s face, and the knot in Dean’s stomach finally began to unravel. Underneath the dirt, the greasy hair, and who knew how many days growth of beard, Sam’s skin looked kind of grey and too pale, but his eyes were clear, and for the moment anyway – lucid. Dean counted that as a win. His smile when he spoke was unforced.

“Come on then, strip those rags off and let’s get you clean.”

Dean leaned across and started the shower, turning the heat up so the bathroom quickly filled with steam. Sam was undressing with painstaking slowness; his hands were shaking so much he kept fumbling with buttons and zippers like he’d never encountered such things before. After a couple of minutes, Dean cracked.

“Here, let me,” he said, and gently helped Sam strip off the layers, one by one. When they reached Sam’s skin, Dean’s calm deserted him, swamped by a flood of rage.

“Shit, Sammy,” he said, his fingers ghosting over Sam’s pecs and down the xylophone of his ribs. Under the layer of grime and chest hair were dark shadows of purple, green and gold, bruises a week old and still showing up like a fresh oil painting on his brother’s skin. Dean was torn between the anguish of knowing those sons of bitches had whaled on Sam with a fucking baseball bat, and the knowledge that Sam had clearly not been eating properly for some time, if the excessive leanness of his torso was anything to go by.

Sam shivered under his touch, goose-bumps following Dean’s fingertips, and Dean shook himself out of his trance. He needed to get Sam in that shower and warmed up – everything else could wait.

“Stand up, you need to get those jeans off.”

Easier said than done, and Dean didn’t want to think how long Sam had been wearing them since they were almost stuck to his legs in places. He held his breath as he finally wrestled Sam out of the offensive pants and added them to the pile of stinky material on the floor, good only for burning. Sam was swaying on his feet as if he was on a boat in a rough sea, and Dean rapidly revised his plan about leaving Sam to shower on his own.

“Okay, princess, let’s get you clean, shall we? The sooner you’re all pretty again, the sooner I get my pie.”

He had to physically turn Sam around to point him in the right direction, and hovered anxiously while Sam stepped up into the steam-filled stall. The water flow was powerful and Sam flinched as it hit his shoulders, hunching up under the spray. His eyes were tightly closed and Dean watched in dismay as Sam gradually canted sideways until he was leaning like that old tower in Pisa. Evidently it was only the wall that was keeping him upright. _Aw, fuck_.

“Hold on there, Sammy,” Dean said, tugging at his button-down shirt. He shed his clothes as quickly as he could, but even so he only jumped in behind Sam seconds before Sam started sliding, less than gracefully, down the tiles. Dean caught Sam round his too-slim waist and hauled him upright.

“Stay with me, Sam, come on. No sleeping on the job, right?” Sam hummed in response. His eyes were heavy lidded, and most of his weight still being handled by Dean, but at least he was upright. Okay, Dean could work with that. Dean freed one hand and reached for the small bottle of complimentary shampoo. With both arms tucked under Sam’s arm-pits, he awkwardly squeezed out some liquid and started on Sam’s matted hair. He massaged his fingers into Sam’s scalp, working up a nice lather. Suds slithered down Sam’s shoulders, making white trails as the ingrained dirt washed away. Dean hoped Stella was right about the unlimited hot water, because cleaning Sam up was going to take a while, especially if he kept pressing back into Dean’s groin like that.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean moaned when Sam did it again, and his dick slip-slid along the crease of Sam’s ass. “Don’t do that, man, it’s not… Oh god.” Dean flushed as his cock inevitably started to fatten up. “Fuck,” he said again. Dean was getting repetitive, but sue him, all his blood was rushing south and consequently his brain was being starved of oxygen. Yes, he was fully aware Sam was his brother. And currently filthy, smelly and practically sleep-walking. And so not his type. But. It had been a long fucking time since he’d had a happy ending, all right? He was only human.

He attempted to concentrate on the task in hand ( _in hand, ha! Not helping…_ ), the shower spray needling his back as he manhandled Sam, trying to work the soap through the layered dirt. Sam’s humming got louder when Dean’s hands moved over Sam’s hairy chest and down over those ridiculously lean abs. There really wasn’t an ounce of fat left on Sam’s body. Dean started, then closed his eyes when Sam grabbed his right hand and dragged it lower, following the line of coarse hair that led to Sam’s cock.

Sam was hard.

Dean’s fingers moved independent of thought, exploring. He’d seen Sam naked before, even seen him aroused – because sharing rooms since forever made it inevitable that the veil of privacy would be torn on occasions, no matter how hard they clung to its raggedy edges. He’d touched Sam before too, pretty much everywhere in the course of their many training bouts and the tending of many injuries – but never combined the two, touch and arousal. Never wanted to, either, so why did this feel so good now? Maybe Sam wasn’t the only crazy Winchester.

Dean pulled his hand away. Sam had just spent a month not knowing who Dean was, or even his own identity; he was probably hallucinating, nearly asleep on his feet, he couldn’t know what he was doing or with whom. This was wrong on so many levels, Dean couldn’t even begin to articulate them all.

“Sam. Stop.” His voice cracked, suddenly hoarse. “I’ll just…” He kept his eyes squeezed tight shut and tried to step backwards, feeling for the glass door so he could get out, escape, run away from this – whatever this was.

“Dean.”

Just one word; probably only word that could have stopped him in his tracks. An affirmation. Dean opened his eyes. He shook his head slightly, blinked the water out of them. Sam had turned to face him and was standing close, not attempting to touch but instead pinning Dean in place with his gaze. Dean couldn’t look away. Sam was washed clean and gleaming, coated in a translucent gloss of water. He was pale and pink and speckled with moles like punctuation marks. His hair was water-dark and his face all sharp angles and he was more than beautiful, he was everything. Dean didn’t know what to do with that, never had.

Dean never blinked, yet somehow Sam was right up inside his space without Dean seeing him move, the whole warm wet length of him pressing up against Dean. Sam bent his head, pointy nose poking insistently into Dean’s neck, his breath tickling Dean’s ear.

“Please, Dean, just let me.” Dean’s head snapped back and he gasped in shock. Sam had slid a hand between them, wrapped it around their swelling erections, bringing satin skin on satin, enfolded in one large, rough grip. Sam shuffled them both back under the heat of the shower and Dean thought he was going to drown, not from the water in his face, but from being immersed in Sam.

“I know, you, Dean. Now, I know you. Even when I’d forgotten, I knew I was missing something important, deep inside me,” Sam whispered in a continuous stream as he worked their cocks together, but now he wasn’t talking to imaginary devils or ghosts, he was talking solely to Dean. Now it was Sam who was holding Dean up, while he methodically took his big brother apart, piece by piece.

“We are part of each other, spine and heart and blood and bone…”

Dean didn’t know how Sam could still be talking when all he could do was mewl like a drowning kitten. He couldn’t really comprehend words any more; he was unravelling into a trembling, shaking mess, and maybe some of the water running down his face was a little more than blood temperature and salty. If so he couldn’t tell, would never admit it, even if it was true.

Sam was silk and satin and touching him should have been soothing, but it was burning Dean up from the inside out. And the worst thing was, he didn’t care. So when Sam told him to let go – he did.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/25238877419/in/photostream/)

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It wasn’t about sex. Sam knew that, though he wasn’t sure Dean understood. It didn’t matter. He watched Dean’s eyes flutter shut, felt Dean’s heartbeat race where Sam pressed his tongue flat to his brother’s neck, tasting Dean through the warm water. He wanted to strip Dean down like one of his guns, dismantling him; to lay out those complex pieces – expose all their intricate beauty – simply so he could put Dean back together again, clean and shiny and new. He hoped that maybe Dean could do the same for him, because since Dean had climbed into the shower with him, everything had been blessedly silent. No Lucifer, no Jess, no ghosts or visions or hallucinations – just Dean, filling up Sam’s world with that stupid, annoying, caring presence.

Sam was certain, one hundred per cent, that all of this was real.

Sam wanted to do something, he didn’t know exactly what, only that it was important that he should do _something_ to keep Dean here. He wanted to thank Dean for not giving up, for coming to find him. He had no way of knowing how long the madness could be kept at bay, so there was only the present in which to act. A present where they were both naked and wet, and full of each other in a way they hadn’t been for years, if ever. So turning round to face Dean, moving as close as he could physically get to his brother, all seemed totally logical.

His brother’s dick in his hand was hot and hard and real, and he didn’t want to stop until Dean was unmade, simply so that Sam could remake them both, better, stronger, happier. Of course, it didn’t work out like that. Sam should have known better than to hope. Hope was a killer emotion, always ready to cut him down, leave him flatter than Kansas. When both of them had shuddered through their orgasms and let the still warm water wash them clean, Sam’s nightmare was waiting for him. Outside.

They stepped out of the shower together in silence. Already Sam could feel the chill of awkwardness cooling his skin. As Sam wound himself in the towel Dean handed him, he tried desperately to think of a way to stop the inevitable tension building, only to look up and see Lucifer perched on the washbasin, drawing hearts in the steamed-up mirror.

“I never thought you had it in you, Sammy boy. Incest, huh? I’m proud of you, I really am.”

“It’s not like that!” Sam almost shouted, then froze, horrified. In that moment, he knew he’d lost all the ground he’d gained. His brief freedom from care was swirling down the drain along with dirty shower water and hot come. He didn’t want to see the expression on Dean’s face when his brother turned to ask him what was up, so he made a dash for the bathroom door.

“Sammy?” and  “I think giving your big brother a hand job certainly counts,” came from behind him, but Sam ignored both brother’s question and Devil’s drawl, only to find there was nowhere to hide in the motel room. Because Castiel was standing awkwardly by the door, while Meg was sitting at the table in the window, flipping channels on the TV. The pleasant tang of citrus shampoo that had wafted out of the bathroom dissipated instantly, leaving nothing but the bitter residue of failure. Lucifer rested his chin on the oblivious Castiel’s shoulder and waved at Sam.

“Oh look, it’s my little brother. Do you think he’d jerk me off too, if I asked him nicely?”

Sam’s legs were shaking and there was a bed nearby, so he sank down onto it, clutching onto the thick coverlet with both hands. When Lucifer cackled with laughter, Sam drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped both arms around them. He was vaguely aware of Meg saying something, then Dean and Cas talking, but it was hard to care any more. Not when the little flame of hope that had kindled inside him had been so cruelly snuffed out.

He wondered how long it would take Dean to acknowledge the stench of his own failure too and return Sam to the psych ward.

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Dean followed Sam into the bedroom, his guts twisted into a raging knot of worry. The twitchy nervousness that Dean had come to recognise as a clear sign Sam was seeing things was back, and Dean thought he’d go crazy himself if he had to take Sam back to that hospital. His mind was already racing, coming up with strategies to go all Cuckoo’s Nest and get admitted alongside Sam, when Castiel spoke.

“Dean, I know I said I could not rebuild Death’s wall, but there is one thing I could try. I may be able to shift the problem.”

Dean’s heart lurched painfully as if it had been kick-started and he saw Meg look round, alarmed. As if he cared what that bitch thought.

“Shift it?”

“Yes. It could get Sam back on his feet.” Cas sat on the edge of Sam’s bed, ignoring the way Sam flinched away. Sam’s eyes were darting around the room, following movement no one else could see and Dean didn’t want to know what (or who) that might be. If Cas could fix this, get Sam back…

“Do it,” Dean said, fists clenched so tight his nails cut into his palms. He balked at adding _please_ , he was still too angry at Cas to plead with him. Meg stood up, telling Cas to wait, but Cas ignored her and took Sam’s hand.

“It’s better this way.”

Sam’s eyes lit up like glowing coals and his face contorted in pain. Dean leapt forward in horror, only to see the fire had already left Sam’s eyes and was travelling down his body, drawn irresistibly towards Castiel’s hand where it was gripping Sam’s. Dean hovered, helpless, as the burning madness left Sam and took hold of Castiel. All he could do was be there to steady Sam when his brother swayed where he sat, then looked around, alert and clear-eyed for the first time in longer than Dean cared to remember. Dean touched Sam’s cheek, hesitantly, hardly daring to hope.

“Dean.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Sammy.”

Meg snorted derisively. “I hate to interrupt your Jerry Maguire moment, but I think our little tree topper’s fallen off his Christmas tree.”

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Castiel might not be the most perceptive angel in Heaven, but he knew Dean better than anyone, angel or human. The look on Dean’s face when he followed Sam out of the bathroom was as close to devastation as Castiel had seen since telling Dean he had been responsible for breaking the first seal. Except this time, it was Castiel’s actions that were the direct cause of Dean’s pain. He couldn’t blame the orders of Heaven or duty for what he had done. That made it even more important to try and put this right, any way he could.

The process started swiftly the moment Castiel took Sam’s hand and he barely had time to register the pain before it engulfed his entire vessel. His eyes closed and he rode it out for a moment or several; he wasn’t sure how long it was in reality, but it felt interminable. Gradually the burning sensation in his human blood and tissue subsided and cautiously Castiel opened his eyes.

The room was empty. No Sam, no Dean, no Meg. Castiel felt rather than saw a darkness around the edges of his grace. He reached out to test its boundaries. A low chuckle came from behind and he whirled around at the sound. Panic washed over him as he saw who was standing there, though really, he should have expected it.

“Well hello, little brother. This is an unexpected pleasure.”

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The End


End file.
